


Your Name in Blood Across the Heart

by kathierif_fic



Category: Inception (2010), Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathierif_fic/pseuds/kathierif_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When rich art collectors are getting killed mysteriously in their sleep, Neal Caffrey knows exactly who can help with this case and calls Arthur and Eames. The problem is just that their killer is not exactly human...and it wants to kill Neal in his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Name in Blood Across the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> for xover-exchange 2011 on lj, written for chosenfire28
> 
> Prompt:  
> \- half of surprise family, one character is related to another, either they are surprised or their friends/family (sorry I didn't incorporate all of it)  
> \- Inception and White Collar | Pairing: Neal Caffrey and Arthur (gen only), Neal and Arthur/Eames (gen for Neal, romantic for Arthur/Eames)  
> with a little bit of  
> \- SPN and any | crossed over character works with Hunters and/or is a Hunter (hinted at)  
> and  
> \- Inception and any | Dreamsharing, either doing it together or learning how together (hinted at)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~

"Caffrey!”

Neal almost, but not quite, startled at Peter bellowing his name. He glanced up from the file he had been poring over with the air of a man just looking up from his morning newspaper, not one studying a boring insurance fraud, just in time to see Peter point two fingers at him and beckon him to his office.

“What's up?” he asked as cheerfully as he was able to, but he knew he couldn't fool Peter, not after complaining about the boring tasks he'd been dealing with for weeks on end now. Life as consultant for the FBI wasn't quite as glamorous as it might have looked on first glance, but every now and then, the mind-numbing boredom of paperwork was interrupted by a spike of excitement and sometimes pure terror, adrenaline and the threat of physical harm.

“Hey, Neal.” Peter looked up and lifted a file from the edge of his desk. “I have something I want you to look at.”

“Another insurance fraud?” Neal asked, almost managing to hide the whine in his voice.

Peter grinned and offered the file again.

“I promise, this is a little more...baffling than simple insurance fraud,” he said, and Neal finally took the file, sat down opposite Peter and opened it.

“Mystery murder,” he mused, his eyes flying over the report and taking in the details, his mind already whirling with ideas and possibilities, like bricks fitting together and creating mental buildings.

“Very much,” Peter agreed. “Five rich and well-known art collectors found dead within a span of six months. They all were healthy and fit, and there was no obvious cause of death. They all died while they were alone and behind locked doors, and they all were found by family members or staff the next morning.”

“Why are we looking into this?” Neal flicked through the file.

“I'm glad you asked.” Peter grinned. “Each of them was robbed – the most valuable piece of art they owned disappeared under equally as mysterious circumstances. The heirs are quite understandably upset about that.”

“None of the pieces appeared on the market?” Neal asked, but he already knew the answer.

“Nope,” Peter replied nonetheless. “If they sold these pieces, they were very careful not to leave any trails behind. It's like they just disappeared.”

“Hmm.” Neal frowned and turned over another page. “They all died while locked in a room by themselves?”

“The only thing that points to anything suspicious going on was a weird chemical compound in the victims' blood.”

Neal leaved through the file until he reached the toxicology reports of the victims. He knew vaguely how to decipher the chemical structures displayed on all of the pages, and it only took him a brief moment to memorize it.

He had seen something like this before. Not exactly like this, he realized as he compared the records, but something that was probably close enough to serve the same purpose.

He needed to get away from Peter and make a very important phone call, and he needed to make it without Peter even knowing about it.

This was something that someone else had to handle, someone who was better trained and equipped for this kind of thing than Peter Burke.

Someone who worked on the other side of that fine line of legality that Neal himself was constantly balancing on, thanks to the tracker on his ankle.

A specialist.

“So,” he started, smiling at Peter and hiding his thoughts as well as he was able to, “what do we do first?”

Peter frowned at him. He suspected something and for a split part of a second Neal feared that Peter knew him too well, that sometime during the past three years or the time Peter had spent chasing him, Peter had learned to look past his facades and masks and now knew exactly what was going on in Neal's mind, knew exactly what Neal was thinking and what he was planning to do.

But then, the moment was over, and Peter stood.

“First, we talk to the heirs,” he said and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Maybe one of them knows more than they are letting on.”

~*+*~

“Hey.” Neal glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was alone and that neither Peter nor Mozzie were trying to sneak up on him while he was making this phone call to a number he had buried deep in his mind and kept in his mental safe.

This information was more important than anything else, more important than the contents and locations of all of his stashes and safehouses and more important than the list of all his crimes and forgeries.

“Hey, man, it's me...” He glanced over his shoulder again. “Listen, I have a situation here that is right up your alley, and I might need your help and skill set...” He saw Peter leaving the building across the street from him and walking straight up to him, and without saying another word, he ended the call. It had gone to voicemail, but Neal knew that he would receive a call back as soon as possible.

“Who was that?” Peter wanted to know with a nod toward the phone Neal was pushing back into his pocket.

Neal shrugged. “Mozzie,” he lied. “He doesn't know anything about the artwork, but he'll keep his eyes open.”

Peter nodded, obviously believing Neal's words, and Neal dared to breathe an inaudible sigh of relief.

~*+*~

The call back came exactly five hours and twenty-three minutes later, and this time Neal had to duck into his closet to evade Mozzie's sharp ears.

“Neal.”

“Arthur.”

The greeting was oddly formal. Neal swallowed thickly and brushed invisible specs of dust from the lapels of his jacket.

“I can be in New York in ten hours,” Arthur finally said. His voice was quiet, controlled, but Neal still had the distinct impression that Arthur was rushed.

He knew better than to ask where the other man was. If Arthur wanted him to know, he would tell him.

“That...” Neal glanced at his watch and made some quick calculations in his head. “That would be great. Do you want me to pick you up somewhere?”

“No, don't bother.” Arthur sounded almost amused. “No need to get you in trouble. I'll come to your place.”

Neal nodded, even if he knew that Arthur couldn't see it. There was only one thing he could say now, one thing that was safe to say over the phone.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Kiddo,” Arthur answered immediately, and Neal could clearly hear the unspoken words hanging between them like static.

~*+*~

Neal had dozed off on the couch. His sketchpad had slid out of his lax fingers and was resting on the cushion next to him, his hair was tousled and falling into his forehead, making him appear younger than he was.

He looked like the kid Arthur used to know, before Cobb and before the military.

Before everything.

“You want to wake him up?” The words were whispered quietly against the shell of his ear

Arthur shook his head, his eyes drawn first to where Neal's pants had been pushed up to reveal the tracker on his ankle and then to the rolled-up sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt that, Arthur knew, accented Neal's eyes perfectly.

“Let's just get to work,” he sighed and carefully put the PASIV on the coffee table. He had to shift a small pile of books out of the way to make room for it, but he did so with quick and efficient moves.

“Anything you say, darling.”

Arthur didn't turn around as he carefully slid the needle into Neal's vein and secured it before sitting down in the chair and hooking himself up as well.

“All right, have fun,” Eames said with a teasing grin. Before Arthur could come up with a suitable reply, Eames pressed the button on the PASIV and he fell asleep.

~*+*~

“This isn't real,” Neal said out loud and glanced around the room he suddenly found himself in. “I'm dreaming.”

“Yes, you are. Calm down.” Arthur was standing right behind him, and Neal gave in to his instinct, usually so carefully curbed, and wrapped both arms tightly around him.

It had been too long since he'd seen Arthur, even if it was just in a dream. They both had their own lives, lives that didn't include the other one, and they rarely met.

Arthur made a startled sound at the back of his throat at the unusual display of affection, something they both knew would not happen while they were awake, but then, he hugged Neal back just as fiercely, decorum and appearances forgotten for one tiny moment.

“It's good to see you,” he murmured into Neal's ear before stepping back and pulling out a chair from the old but sturdy table with the many scratches and dents in the wooden surface. “Now tell me about your case.”

~*+*~

“Three art collectors came to the Bureau today, scared about nightmares they've been having.” Neal sank down into a chair and rubbed a hand across his face. “And I think Peter's getting suspicious.”

“He's not stupid, your FBI agent,” Eames said absent-mindedly. He was staring at the sketch of the chemical compound Neal had given him. “What is he going to do next?”

“Well, we're thinking about someone going undercover, to pose as art collector, take the spot of one of these guys who had these nightmares,” Neal said.

“You?” Arthur raised his eyebrows disapprovingly and Neal gave him a wide grin.

“Who else would be able to impersonate a young, dashing art collector who just inherited a house full of valuable artwork if not me?” He gave Eames a dazzling smile. “No offense, Eames.”

“None taken.” Eames sounded slightly distracted, and he didn't look up from Neal's sketchpad, but nobody in the room made the mistake of thinking that he was not aware of everything going on around him. “When are you going to do it?”

“Today.” Neal shrugged slightly. “There is a party, and I'm going to make my great entrance there.”

Eames finally looked up with a small grin. “Well, I have one piece of advice for you.”

Neal gave him a curious look. “What's that?”

“Free champagne. Don't overdo it.” Eames' grin widened at Arthur's snort. “And don't let anyone kill you in your dreams, Kiddo.”

~*+*~

“What are you thinking?” Arthur asked as he put his shirt neatly on a hanger and started to unbutton his pants.

“I'm thinking you should've gone with the red underwear. It's much more exciting,” Eames replied, the grin audible in his voice. Arthur didn't need to turn around to know what expression was on Eames' face right now, just as Eames didn't need to see his face to know Arthur was rolling his eyes.

“About Neal's case,” Arthur clarified as he slipped under the sheets.

Eames hummed, his back still to Arthur as he glanced out of the window. Arthur could hear the soft click of poker chips getting rubbed together as Eames was thinking, and he waited patiently.

“I've seen that compound before,” Eames finally admitted. “Somewhere. If I could remember where...”

He sighed and joined Arthur in bed.

“E-mail Yusuf,” Arthur suggested softly. “Maybe he can help.”

“Maybe.” Eames didn't sound too certain. “Anyways, I'm sure Neal will be fine,” he added as he switched off the lights. “He's smart, you know. Just like his big brother.” He chuckled “Only with a better sense of humor. That is, he has a little bit of a sense of humor.”

Arthur snorted dismissively. He didn't turn around to face Eames, not even when a warm, broad hand settled possessively on the curve of his ass.

“He's not as sexy as his brother, though,” Eames continued. “You trained him yourself.” His breath was hot against the shell of Arthur's ear. “And I taught him a few things too. The FBI is looking out for the kid, Arthur. You mustn't worry about him so much. He can look out for himself.”

Soft breathing was his only answer for a long moment. Finally, Arthur stirred.

“Can't help it,” he muttered. “He's all that I have...you know.”

“You have me,” Eames grinned and tugged, to make Arthur turn toward him.

Arthur didn't answer, but Eames imagined he could still see the eyeroll.

~*+*~

They had both barely dozed off when Arthur's phone started ringing.

“There definitely was something in that dream with me,” Neal said without preamble when Arthur fumbled the phone to his ear and took the call. “I could feel it. And it was the same kind of nightmare the other guys described, some kind of monster following and hunting me, sniffing me out, as if it wanted to find out if I'm really who I'm supposed to be. That's what it felt like.” He took a rattling breath. “There wasn't anyone in the room with me, no marks, nothing. Just that dream.”

“Calm down,” Arthur said, his voice firm. “Relax, calm down. You're awake, you're safe now. We're on our way.”

“Okay.” Neal exhaled sharply. “You'll have to sneak by the FBI guys in the van,” he then said.

Arthur gave Eames, who was already busy getting dressed, a look. Sneaking by the FBI agents would not be a problem, despite the pink shirt Eames was buttoning up right now.

~*+*~

“You're not afraid of falling asleep now, are you?” Eames asked and sprawled out on top of the kingsize bed.

“No,” Neal replied, but his eyes were still a little bit too wide for Arthur's peace of mind. “I'm not afraid of falling asleep. My subconsciousness kicked me awake as soon as I realized that there was something with me in that dream.” He grimaced. “Not that it'll help me,” he then added. “The guys who came to the FBI said they had the same dream every time they closed their eyes.”

“What did they do?”

“One flew to Florida, one moved to a hotel.” A shadow crossed Neal's face. “The third one is stubborn and trying to get through this with the help of high-end security.”

“Let's check this out,” Eames interrupted and patted Neal's shoulder. “Get comfy, Kiddo.”

“You know,” Neal replied. “I would really like it if you'd stop calling me that.”

Eames just grinned and Neal knew with a hundred percent certainty that his complaint would only egg the other man on.

“Relax,” Arthur murmured. He'd dragged an overstuffed chair close to the bed and sat down now. “Let's see who or what is in your mind.”

Neal gave him a long look before exhaling quietly and closing his eyes. He wasn't particularly keen on returning to the dream and the feeling of panic it had caused in him, but he knew that Arthur and Eames needed to know what they were dealing with if they wanted to help him.

~*+*~

Strong fingers closed around Arthur's wrist, and he came to an abrupt stop. They were in the middle of an art gallery, and the fact that he couldn't remember hoe he got here told him more than anything else that he was in a dream.

In Neal's dream.

No, he corrected himself. In the dream someone had built for Neal.

Neal was right next to him, his usually so nimble fingers clenched in a white-knuckled grip around Arthur's wrist and probably leaving bruises on his skin.

“It's the exact same dream,” Neal murmured. “The monster will be coming from that side.” He nodded to his left. “Where is Eames?”

“Monster?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Not sure where he is.” He reached underneath his jacket to pull out his gun. He saw Neal's grimace at the sight of the weapon – Neal still hated guns, even in his dreams. In that regard, he hadn't changed at all.

His attention shifted from Neal to the end of the hallway. Black smoke was billowing out from around the corner. The projections of Neal's subconsciousness stared in the same direction as him, Arthur noted. The floor vibrated under the weight of heavy steps, and the sound of wet breathing was unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent gallery.

“We should get out of here,” Neal murmured, and he didn't protest when Arthur pushed him behind himself and started to herd him away from the presence still hidden by the edge of a corner. As they left, more projections turned in that direction, but they didn't attack the dreamer, Arthur noted.

Something weird was going on.

Suddenly, a pale brunette in high-heeled shoes appeared and grabbed Neal's arm. Her eyes were huge in her face, her lipstick a bright spot of red.

“Kate?” Neal muttered dazedly before biting his lip. “No. Eames.”

The woman snorted. “Let's move,” she said. “I don't like this. This isn't any good at all.” Mid-sentence, she morphed back into Eames and his familiar tone and speech pattern.

“What do you mean, not good?” Neal asked worriedly.

“You really don't want to know at this point,” Eames muttered, his voice almost swallowed by a loud scream of rage. “Let's go!”

They started to run, but the presence remained sharp on their heels, no matter where they turned. Finally, Eames stopped and leaned against a wall.

“I'm sorry, Kiddo,” he said.

“Sorry for wha-” Neal glanced over just in time to see Eames point a gun at his forehead and pull the trigger.

~*+*~

He woke with a start and a gasp. “I hate guns.”

“I just hate to get shot,” Arthur grumbled next to him. He'd woken up just seconds after Neal.

“Any ideas what that might have been?” Neal asked him and ran both hands through his hair.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Eames sat up, a deep frown on his forehead as he removed the IV from his vein and started to coil it up haphazardly. His mouth was pulled into an unhappy line.

“What is it?” Neal twisted around to look at Eames, the same expression on his face as on Arthur's. They looked very much alike, their foreheads furrowed in a frown, their eyes slightly narrowed, slender bodies coiled to jump into action, and despite the direness of the situation they had suddenly found themselves in, Eames had to fight to suppress a smile.

“It's not exactly human,” he said carefully and held up a hand. To ward off the questions he could see in both Neal's and Arthur's eyes. “That's why I recognized the compound. Luckily, I know just the right guy to deal with this problem.” He was already reaching for his phone, scrolling through his contacts.

“You shot me,” Neal suddenly pointed out. “What if that...thing had sedated me?”

Eames grinned. “Trust me,” he said. “You're not ripe enough for that yet.”

~*+*~

“We need to talk.” Neal licked his lips nervously as he sat down opposite Peter and picked up the menu.

“What about?” Peter asked, his muscles suddenly tense.

“I know how these people died,” Neal murmured. His mouth barely moved, and to any outsider, it looked as if he was just perusing his options for an early lunch. “We're dealing with mind crime here. Extraction, Inception, something like that. They're using it to steal all these pieces of art.”

“Neal,” Peter replied, his eyes serious. “Walden Grosskauf was found dead this morning, several pieces of his collection are missing. This is too dangerous. I'm going to pull you out.”

“No.” Neal bit his lip and shook his head. He thought for a moment before making a decision. “I have someone to keep an eye on me.”

“Who, Mozzie?” Peter's frown was deepening now.

“Not Moz.” Neal shook his head. “Someone who is even closer to me than Mozzie.”

Peter gave him a suspicious look. “Who is he, Neal?”

The thing was, Neal wasn't too certain that this was the right thing to do. He wanted desperately to trust Peter with this secret he'd carried around since he'd left home, a secret nobody, not even Mozzie, was aware of, but he knew Peter.

Peter was like a dog with a bone. If he found out about Arthur...

He swallowed nervously and glanced down at his hands. “My brother.”

“Your...excuse me, what?” Peter's voice rose in surprise and shock. “I didn't know you had a brother,” he hissed.

“Technically, he's my half-brother.” Neal shifted uncomfortably. “Older half-brother.”

Peter stared at him in astonishment. He'd always thought he knew everything that was important about Neal Caffrey, but he had never even suspected that Neal had a brother. He was at the same time curious and worried, but one glance at Neal's body language told him that any questions about that mysterious brother would be unwelcome and Neal would squirm like an eel to try to evade answering those questions.

There was a reason why Neal had never mentioned any siblings, and almost against his better judgment, Peter took a leap of faith and tried to respect that.

He could always try to find out more later.

“You trust this brother of yours to keep you safe?” he asked gruffly.

Neal nodded firmly and flashed a wide grin at the waitress. “I do.”

~*+*~

“I have only one very important question.” Dean Winchester had expressive green eyes, full lips and he was moving with the careful grace of a panther.

A bowlegged panther, Neal thought as he watched Dean take in the room with the same tactical assessment and intensity he knew from Arthur, looking for escape routes, hiding places and dangers.

“What's your question, Winchester?” Eames asked while stepping up to Dean and shaking his hand.

“Is the monster's name Freddy?”

Arthur grimaced, but Eames grinned quietly. “I didn't stop to ask it for its name,” he admitted. “I know I've read about this before, but I don't remember what it is.”

“And you're sure it's not just a really good forger? One that got even you fooled, Eames?” Dean chuckled and gave Neal a long once-over.

Neal swallowed slightly. Dean wasn't much older than Neal himself, but the look in his eyes was weary and jaded. It was the look of someone who had seen too much in his life already, someone who could look behind masks and see the ugly truth behind them.

“Trust me, I know when I'm facing a monster,” Eames huffed. “I might not be an active hunter like you and that brother of yours, but I know a supernatural creature when I see it.”

“What kind of creature are you dealing with?” Dean asked with a shrug. His jeans, Neal thought distractedly, were frayed at the knee, his boots scuffed, but he could bet that Dean Winchester would clean up really nicely, if given the chance.

They might have that chance sooner than later, he thought with a glance out of the window. Eames had indicated that Dean was not someone who should come in contact with the FBI. He hadn't said why and Neal hadn't asked, but he wondered why someone who was on the run from the authorities didn't drive a different car. The Impala Dean had arrived in was not exactly subtle.

He didn't know why Dean hadn't taken a plane instead of driving for hours and days, and when he'd asked, Eames had simply said that Dean didn't like flying. Neal hadn't asked any further questions.

“I don't know what it is,” Eames repeated with forced patience. “It's why I called you, isn't it.”

“Hmm.” Dean looked around the room again. “All right, I can check this one out for you,” he finally said. “But you'll owe me one, Eames.”

Eames snorted and muttered something under his breath, but in the end, he nodded.

“This thing. It's only shown up in his dreams, and it's definitely focusing on Neal. So far, it's only sniffing around him, but we don't know how it gets access to his dreams in the first place.”

“There are quite a few things that attack in your sleep,” Dean mused out loud. “Incubi, Succubi...” His grin turned suggestive. “What kind of dreams did you have?”

Neal found himself blushing slightly. “Not that kind of dream,” he said stiffly. Since the first dream he'd had, whenever he had been able to sleep, either Eames or Arthur had been with him in his dreams to wake him up if necessary. There had been nothing like what Dean was hinting at.

“Let's check out the house,” Dean said.

“Just be careful,” Eames said and clapped his shoulder. “We don't want you to run into one of Neal's little FBI friends, do we?”

~*+*~

“Hey, Kiddo, you want...” Eames stopped short and frowned into the semi-darkness of the room.

Neal was sitting in a chair, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. His chest was moving, but his eyes were closed. His sketchpad had fallen to the floor, opening on a series of sketches – Arthur, Dean, and him, Eames noted as he stepped over it.

“Neal?” Something was wrong, and Eames' instincts screamed at him to get away.

He couldn't.

This was Neal Caffrey. Neal was Arthur's only family – the only family Eames knew about. He'd taught Neal a few tricks when he'd been younger, mostly to piss off Arthur, but during the process, Neal had grown on him. He was a good conman and a passable forger, and if he'd wanted, he could have had a good career in Eames' field.

He reached out and shook Neal's shoulder gently, then tapped his cheek with slightly more force.

Neal didn't wake up, not even when Eames gave him a kick and pushed him out of the chair, and with a sinking feeling deep in his stomach, Eames realized that this was not good.

Not good at all.

They needed to do something, and they needed to act quickly before it was too late.

“Arthur! Dean!” he called out. “Neal's gone under!” There was no time to wait for them to rush into the room now.

Neal's life was in danger.

Hastily, Eames connected both of them to the PASIV and stretched out next to Neal's crumpled form on the ground.

He couldn't wake up Neal, and there was only one thing he could do right now, and that was to follow Neal into his dream and keep him safe there.

~*+*~

“It's not real,” Neal told himself as he took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart.

The art gallery of his dream was by now familiar, but there was something different about it this time. He stepped closer to the wall to inspect the painting there and realization hit.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Definitely in a dream. And it's not mine.” The painting was familiar. He'd seen it a few times when Peter had briefed him on the case.

It was one of the stolen artworks.

Taking another deep breath, he tried to remember whatever he could about dreaming, specifically shared dreaming, from his lessons from Arthur and Eames. He needed to focus now to get out of this alive.

There were a few ways to escape from a shared dream, he knew that. Usually, being aware that he was dreaming was enough, but not this time. A kick, for example, would get him out as well. The dreamer waking up would make the dream destabilize.

He didn't know exactly who the dreamer was and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. If Eames was right and it was some kind of monster, he'd rather stay far away from it. He couldn't give himself a kick in this gallery.

There was only one way he could think of now to escape from this dream.

He had to find a way to kill himself. It would wake him up – it had always woken him up when Eames had done it to him.

Dreaming up a gun was surprisingly easy. All he needed was a projection of Peter, strong and determined and with slightly narrowed eyes and his lips pressed tightly together when Neal reached for his gun.

He hated the feeling of the gun in his hand, its weight and its coldness, and he really hated the feeling of it being pressed to his temple, even if he put it there himself.

“Kiddo, wait!”

The voice was familiar enough to make him pause and look over his shoulder at the projection of Eames coming at him with both hands raised.

“Don't shoot yourself,” Eames told him and reached out, to grab the gun from his hand. “Don't, you're actually sedated this time.”

“That means I won't wake up,” Neal realized. A lump was forming in his throat, and he had to take several deep breaths to calm himself down. The projections around him were staring at Eames now. “I would end up...in limbo.”

Limbo was unorganized dreamspace. The thought alone made cold sweat break out along the line of his spine. There was no guarantee that he would ever wake up if he dropped into limbo.

The fact that he was sedated told him that this was it, too. The monster would actually come and try to kill him this time.

“What now?” he asked.

Eames grimaced. “We'll have to keep you safe. Alive,” he said. His hands were warm and big on Neal's, soothingly familiar and steady.

Neal took a deep breath and decided to trust Eames.

“How?” he asked.

Eames smiled grimly. “By dreaming bigger, Kiddo.”

~*+*~

Arthur came to a skidding stop next to Eames, his eyes on Neal's face. He could hear Dean mutter a curse behind him, but his attention was on his brother.

His first instinct was to follow Neal and Eames into the dream, make sure they were alive and safe, but something held him back.

There were only two people in this room. Neal and Eames.

Where was the dreamer?

He didn't realize he'd spoken the words out loud until Dean shifted behind him.

“I think I know what we're dealing with,” he murmured, his fingers pressed against the flutter of pulse in Eames' throat.

“What?” Arthur asked, his worry carefully pushed away. He needed to focus now, needed to rely on his skills to get Neal and Eames safely out of the dream.

“You said it collects art,” Dean said, his voice intense, his eyes bright.

“Yes,” Arthur said. Neal had let him take a look at his memories of the file, and he had hacked into the FBI's database and had done his own research. Neal's memories were filled with hero worship for Agent Peter Burke, but Arthur had almost expected that. Even if they didn't speak as much, he still made a point of keeping tabs on Neal.

“It sedates its victims and kills them in their dreams,” Dean said, his voice more urgent now.

“That doesn't make sense,” Arthur pointed out. “If it kills them in their dream while they are sedated, they slip into limbo. Into a coma. They don't die immediately.”

“Not if it's a supernatural thing,” Dean pointed out, something like triumph in his eyes.

Arthur didn't react to the emotion.

There was no time.

“What kind of monster?” he asked.

If he was honest, he had never believed in the kind of things that went bump in the night, until a few months ago, when Eames had saved his life from a real, honest-to-God ghost.

At first he had freaked out. He'd believed he'd still been dreaming and he'd curled up in a corner, a white-knuckled grip on his totem, while Eames went and put salt lines along the doors and windows and cleaned up the grave he'd opened up to burn the remains.

Eames knew more about this kind of thing than Arthur, and Eames had told him Dean Winchester was the best to deal with this.

They might not always agree and bicker and fight like cats and dogs on a job, but Arthur trusted Eames.

If Eames said Dean Winchester was the best to deal with this kind of thing, Arthur believed him.

“It's a Magpie.” Dean straightened. “It has to be somewhere close by, to keep up the dream. It's going to kill both Caffrey and Eames if we don't hurry.”

A muscle jumped in Arthur's jaw.

“How do we stop it?”

Dean didn't say anything. He just pulled the sharp knife from where he'd put it in his belt.

Arthur pulled his gun. “You find it, I stay here,” he said, his voice steel.

Dean nodded, whirled around on the heel of his scuffed boot and left the room.

He had a monster to find and to kill.

~*+*~

“Arthur really is a good teacher, have to give him that,” Eames muttered as he checked his gun and glanced over his shoulder.

The monster was following them, concealed by a black cloud of smoke. Not being able to see it, Neal thought as he followed Eames' example and glanced around the corner, only made it much scarier than it possibly could be.

Arthur had taught Neal as much as he could in the short time they had spent together, and Neal knew that there was a reason why they couldn't find a way out of this gallery.

The monster had trapped them in a maze.

“I hope Arthur and Dean can take care of it,” Eames added as he turned around the corner again and sent a spray of bullets toward the black cloud.

“Me too,” Neal wheezed and focused on getting enough oxygen into his lungs. They had tried to outrun the monster, but no matter how fast and how far they went, they were still in the art gallery and the monster was steadily getting closer.

“How'd you meet him?” he asked, just to break the silence. The monster knew where they were, no matter if they talked or not, and hearing Eames' voice actually helped keeping the panic in his chest from bubbling over.

Eames grabbed his upper arm and dragged him further into the maze.

“Who, Dean?” he asked, checking his gun.

“Hmm.”

“I knew his father. John Winchester. Actually, Arthur knew him too, but he didn't know John was a Hunter.” Eames pushed Neal into a wall and turned to fire at the monster again. The bullets didn't do much to slow it down, but Eames hoped it would give them at least a little breathing room.

Just a moment to allow Dean and Arthur to find the monster in the real world and kill it.

~*+*~

Dean hurried through the rooms of the house as fast as he could. He knew he didn't have a lot of time and he cursed the fact that he'd come to New York on his own, without Sam.

Sam was at Bobby's, recuperating from injuries he'd sustained during their last hunt, but Dean could really use his help right now. When the call from Eames had come, he hadn't hesitated and had driven here. Eames was a friend, a fellow hunter even if not an active one, and he had helped Dean out in the past with a forged passport and credit card without asking any questions.

The magpie had to be somewhere here, Dean was certain.

He just needed to find it before it found Neal and Eames, and if he considered that dreamtime moved at a different speed than it did in the real world, he knew he was almost out of time.

Neal Caffrey. Dean wasn't sure what to think of the conman. He was a little bit too slick, too polished for Dean's taste, and yet, there was something about him and his wide blue eyes that made Dean take notice. In another life, another reality, they maybe could have been something like friends.

Maybe. If he could get used to Neal's tastes in fine art and his dislike of classic rock.

He rushed into the kitchen, carefully checking each hidden corner to make sure nobody was there, before continuing to the pantry.

He had been there earlier, looking for food, and he was a good enough hunter to notice the shelf that had been pushed slightly askew immediately.

Quietly, so he wouldn't wake up the magpie, he sneaked closer.

There was a small room behind the shelf, barely big enough for a chair. The magpie was perched on that chair, its chin touching its chest, the edge of feathers barely visible under the hem of its clothes.

Clothes that were familiar.

Clothes worn by the housekeeper when she'd served them dinner.

Dean narrowed his eyes as he sneaked closer, his knife a soothing and familiar weight in his hand.

If he was fast enough, he could kill it before it woke up.

~*+*~

Arthur nervously looked at his watch. Dean had been gone for too long, and Eames and Neal still were asleep.

Anxiously, he checked that Neal was still breathing before making a decision.

~*+*~

“Run!” Eames shouted and gave Neal a strong push. He lifted the grenade launcher and pushed his own body weight in the opposite direction, straight toward the monster.

He didn't look back to check if Neal had followed his order.

~*+*~

Neal was struggling for air. Each breath was painful, blood was rushing loudly in his ears. His legs were heavy, making him stumble over his own feet with every step he forced himself to take further. His heart was beating harshly in his chest, reverberating through every fiber of his body. His vision was narrowing, he could taste blood at the back of his mouth.

Eames had told him to run, and Neal did without hesitation.

~*+*~

Tiny beady black eyes opened abruptly.

An angry hiss escaped the magpie, exposing pointed and rotting teeth.

The magpie wasn't quite awake yet, Dean could see that. He still had a shot at killing it.

He could still do it.

He brought his hand with the knife up, ready to plunge it deep into the creature.

The magpie screamed. Dean was close enough to smell its foul breath and he didn't hesitate. His knife described a shallow arc through the air, toward the magpie's chest, the light falling in from the kitchen glinting off the blade.

He was still too slow.

Razorsharp claws stuck out, too fast for the human eye, and Dean felt a burning pain in his side.

He didn't waste any time looking down to see the extent of his injury. He had a job to do, and he needed to focus on that.

He needed to complete his task.

The knife clattered out of suddenly nerveless fingers.

Dean stumbled, a curse on his lips.

He had forgotten about the sedatives of the magpie that was poisoning its claws and putting its victims to sleep. One tiny prick of a claw and the victim would almost immediately fall asleep.

If John could see him now – if Bobby could see him now – they would be disappointed in him, Dean knew.

It was the last thing he thought before he crashed to the ground hard, barely managing to twist to avoid a serious head injury.

The magpie was screaming at him, its voice filled with fury. Dean's eyes tried to close, and he had to fight to keep them at least half-open. The magpie's muscles tensed and twitched, preparing to jump on Dean and rip out his throat, when suddenly a shot rang out.

And another one.

And a third one.

Dean managed to lift his head just a fraction, enough to see Arthur, face grim, a gun in his hand aiming at the magpie.

Arthur would make a good hunter. It was the last thought Dean had before he fell asleep.

~*+*~

Slowly, Neal blinked his eyes open and looked up, into Arthur's face.

“Did you get it?” he murmured, his voice scratchy and his throat dry.

Arthur nodded. “We did.”

Neal closed his eyes again, relief spreading through him.

~*+*~

They said their goodbyes quickly due to the fact that Arthur's gunshots had alarmed the FBI and they were scheduled to show up any moment. Arthur had patched Dean up as much as he was able to in the short amount of time he had, and Eames half dragged and half carried the Hunter to the Impala.

“I'll catch up with you later,” he promised Arthur with a fond smile on his face. He seemed alert enough after waking up, unlike Neal, who felt disoriented and exhausted.

“Take care, Eames,” Arthur simply replied.

“Thanks, Eames,” Neal added. “And thank Dean, too, when he wakes.”

“Will do,” Eames promised and carefully pushed Dean into the car before closing the door. He wasted a few long moments just staring at Arthur, making Neal wonder if he was still sleeping, before he grinned again and drove away.

Arthur brushed a hand through his hair and nudged Neal gently. “You okay?”

Neal gave him a tired smile. “I now am.”

Moments later, FBI agent Peter Burke's car came to a stop in front of the house.

~*+*~

“We found the missing artwork in Edith Kramer's house. All of it,” Peter said and gave Neal a careful look.

“That's good,” Neal replied and flashed him a smile. He was pale, with dark shadows circling his eyes, and Peter wondered if he'd made a mistake when he'd given Neal such a free reign to find the art thief and killer.

He wondered if Neal had any trouble sleeping after the whole experience.

He also wondered if he should tell Neal about the thick files on Winchester and Eames that were locked in his desk; about the fact that both were wanted criminals in various parts of the world; about the fact that the files had been complied after the crime scene unit had lifted their prints from the house.

He wondered if he wanted to ask Neal about the red flags popping up everywhere when he'd tried to find out more about this mysterious Arthur who Neal had introduced to him as his brother, his eyes sparkling happily for a split second before he had himself under control again. Peter knew that Neal had shown him a lot of trust when he'd told him about Arthur, when he'd allowed Peter to meet Arthur, and when he'd asked Peter not to tell anyone about Arthur, not even Mozzie or Elizabeth.

Arthur was Neal's secret.

He had disappeared without a trace as soon as Peter had turned his head, leaving behind a wistful look on Neal's face. He was sure that Neal wanted to follow Arthur and leave all of them behind if he could, but for some reason, Neal was still there.

He hadn't left, and Peter was glad about it.

Should he tell Neal about any of that?

In the end, he decided against it.

Neal didn't need to worry about any of that.

Peter grinned at him. “Our new case,” he announced instead of voicing any of his thoughts and fears and handed Neal a new case file. “You'll like it.” He leaned back in his chair. “A nice boring insurance fraud, and Elizabeth wants you for dinner tomorrow night.”

Neal groaned about the case, but he gave Peter a small smile, apparently grateful for the chance to spend time with him and his wife and not be alone, and as far as Peter was concerned, things started to return to normal exactly that moment.

~*+*~

Exactly two minutes before Neal set foot into Peter and Elizabeth's house, his phone beeped. It was a text message from an unknown sender.

 _E gave D your number. Take care. Call if you run into trouble._

It wasn't signed, but it was enough to make Neal feel happy.

~end.


End file.
